


wear you out

by malfaisant



Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 07:28:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4011082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malfaisant/pseuds/malfaisant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tharkay volunteers to teach Laurence how to fight with a knife, which is probably his first mistake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wear you out

**Author's Note:**

> Set during _Blood of Tyrants_ , with mild spoilers.

Tharkay did not often travel this far up north, and though he’d been to Uliastai once, by way of Xinjiang, the rest of the course that the Chinese had mapped out for Moscow was wholly unfamiliar. He also did not have much to do to occupy the time, what with nearly all the practicalities of their journey already in the care of General Chu’s forces. Tharkay was unaccustomed to being a mere passenger on desert crossings, but even at the outskirts of Mongolia, the Chinese supply lines were still yet well-arranged, and they had dragons in their company assigned to scout and forage when the need arose, leaving him idle.

In an effort to alleviate some restlessness—Laurence had commented there was something of the quality of a cat about his habits—Tharkay had made his way to the trading quarters of the town. Uliastai itself was less of a city and more of a garrison, and the marketplace well-stocked with supplies of weaponry and equipment in addition to the more customary ware. There were all the usual market sounds, albeit with a militaristic bent, vendors pitching their goods, haggling with soldiers on the price of dried fruit, leather, and porcelain alongside swords and gunpowder. Hands in his pockets, Tharkay perused the stalls casually, before eventually coming to a halt at a storefront selling an impressive multitude of blades and knives.

He put a hand to his sword belt, where a dagger was sheathed beside his sword. He was not in dire need of more weapons, but his original collection had been seized from him when he and Arkady were captured, and was never recovered. Perhaps as some manner of apology for his torture, the Chinese had equipped him with a reliable military-issue _dao_ and a practical set of daggers without his having to ask, but counted altogether these were still less in number than what he’d previously owned.

Tharkay picked up one of the knives on display, a short weapon reminiscent of a _bichaq_ , a straight steel blade with a deep, narrow groove running along its spine. The handle was made of polished ox horn and red wood, with a nickel silver pommel and inlays. It was a handsome knife, well-balanced and unostentatious, and most importantly its edge was pragmatically sharp.

Seeing his interest, the merchant began to address him in his native tongue, before Tharkay waved a hand motioning him to speak more slowly. Between his limited grasp of Khalkha and the merchant’s own broken Mandarin, Tharkay managed to haggle the price down to something less extortionate, and eventually walked back to camp with a new knife hanging from his belt.

*

It was early evening when Laurence returned from his most recent meeting with General Chu, Temeraire following closely behind him. Tharkay was outside his tent, throwing knives at a target; the blades flew through the air almost like arrowheads, and embedded themselves with a dull thunk into the trunk of a tall evergreen some ten feet away. Emily Roland watched with close fascination, even as she was supposedly making small repairs on Temeraire’s leather harness.

“Are you teaching Emily how to fight with knives?” Temeraire asked curiously.

Tharkay shrugged, and threw another knife. “She merely asked if she could observe me while I practice. I said yes.”

“Demane taught me some tricks, now and then, but he isn’t nearly as good as Mr. Tharkay, and a horrible teacher besides,” Emily said, with a note of disappointment that made Laurence frown. Even through all the years and against his better sense, he could still not bring himself to wholeheartedly endorse a young lady's enthusiasm for such endeavours.

But that was an old qualm, and instead Laurence opted to voice a different line of concern. "Are you sure you should be straining your hands so soon, Tenzing?" he asked, approaching him. Tharkay’s injuries were at this point mostly healed; his fingers were no longer in splints, but the scars and bruises, the bandages over his knuckles remained, painful reminders of his all-too late ordeal.

Tharkay looked at him blankly as he casually flipped the knife in his hand, shifting and reversing his grip. "I am well-recovered enough for small exercises, and I do not want to neglect my skills so much that I grow rusty."

"Well, it does not in the least look unpracticed to me," Laurence replied with fond exasperation; his words were a clear enough understatement. “I am only remarking upon the fact that perhaps some time spent in recuperation would not go amiss, given your recent injuries.”

“I’ve had little to do in our journey besides recuperate,” said Tharkay, waving a hand dismissively. “I would invite you for some light sparring, if I had thought you would indulge me.”

Laurence blinked. Though he did not think himself incompetent as a fighter, Laurence knew that Tharkay’s skill was formidable; his fighting style, from the occasions that Laurence had had chance to observe, depended upon graceful, economical movements, less reliant on force than on speed. But even so, “I would be glad to oblige you,” he replied, “but surely your condition cannot be all that much recovered yet?”

“It has. Shall I teach you some techniques on how to defend yourself against a knife?” Tharkay asked, a little too innocently. “I do not in the least doubt your proficiency as a swordsman, but perhaps some training would not go amiss either, given your proclivity for attracting assassination attempts.”

“Oh, but that does sound like a splendid idea though, Laurence,” Temeraire interjected, and something in Tharkay’s unchanged expression suggested to Laurence that he’d been banking on just such an interruption. “Pray, I am sure it is quite rude to refuse Tharkay when he has offered such assistance so handsomely. Wouldn’t you agree, Emily?”

Emily had turned her face away, her expression somewhat flustered. “Well, I don’t know if I can really say…”

Laurence glared weakly at Tharkay, but Tharkay only gave him a wry smile. He put the knife in his hand back in its sheath and offered it to Laurence. “If we do not fight with a bare blade, we have nothing to worry about.”

“Still, I do not wish to _add_ to your injuries,” he replied, somewhat peevishly, even as he accepted the knife and divested himself of his aviator’s coat, handing it to Emily.

If it was possible, Tharkay’s voice and expression only took on a more sardonic quality. “I promise you, Will, I am not so infirm that you should worry so. I wager you might even soon grow grateful for the handicap.”

“I suppose, if you are healthy enough to make such boastful challenge, then you must be plenty recovered,” Laurence answered, now half-smiling, matching Tharkay in jest.

Temeraire watched them closely, his head lowered flat on the ground so that his eyeline was level with their own, while Emily sat beside him, her task entirely forgotten. Laurence examined the knife tentatively, noting that the red wood handle was nearly as long as the four-inch blade itself. He held the knife in a forward grip, and made ready several feet away from where Tharkay stood in a loose stance.

“How should I proceed?”

“However you want. Just attack me,” Tharkay replied, sounding almost bored.

Laurence stepped forward cautiously, feet shoulder-width apart. With a lunge, he thrust the knife in an upward motion, aiming at the space just to the side of Tharkay’s ribs. Despite Tharkay’s assurances of the condition of his person, it was not out of insult but sincere concern that Laurence still restrained his effort.

Of course, the upshot of either was Laurence severely miscalculating how fast Tharkay could move in his current state. He stepped forward and to the side of Laurence’s attack, while the back of his hand parried Laurence’s wrist, deflecting the knife. In nearly the same motion, he captured Laurence’s wrist and twisted it, forcing him to drop the knife.

But Laurence’s momentum still carried him forward, and with his forearm against Laurence’s collarbone, Tharkay swiveled them around. Before Laurence could even blink, he was flat on his back on the ground, his wrist still captured, and Tharkay was resting a knee on his chest. He looked down at Laurence, his mouth quirked in an unmistakable expression of satisfaction.

Then Tharkay looked up, at where Temeraire had raised his head, his ruff up. “Come now, I did not hurt your Captain at all,” he said, “Or at least, not physically. You may ask him about his dignity later.”

“Of course I know you would not hurt him!” Temeraire replied, even as he regarded them with obvious concern. “Only, I did not expect it to happen quite so fast, and for Laurence to lose so easily, that I am a little worried.”

“I suspect your Captain was of the same disposition," he said, as he offered a hand and helped Laurence to his feet.

Laurence gave a breathless laugh. “Certainly, I will endeavour better to take you at your word, next time."

Tharkay returned a smile. “Well, let us try again, and see how I fare without the benefit of your concerned moderation.”

After that first session, in which Tharkay managed to disarm Laurence several more times, Temeraire had quite insisted they should start to practice regularly, on the off-chance that knife-wielding assassins should one day come out of the woodwork and catch Laurence unawares.

*

Even at the breakneck speed of the Chinese aerial company, it was still three thousand miles of open country from Peking to Moscow. The weather that day was clear, so that it was only blue above and in front of them, while the landscape of the steppe rolled out beneath in all directions. To the south, Tharkay made out the Altay Mountains lining the horizon, their peaks still topped white with snow in the middle of July.

Temeraire flew at the front of their _niru_ , with General Chu and his personal guard alongside them. Tharkay sat at the base of Temeraire's neck behind Laurence, while Emily was at the lookout’s position on the starboard wing. Seated near her was the boy that, as far as Tharkay understood, Laurence had accidentally adopted in Japan.

Junichiro’s expression was determinedly sullen as Emily attempted to engage him in conversation, though granted that seemed to be the boy’s neutral disposition. At times, snippets of their conversation occasionally carried over the wind, and Tharkay would hear Emily’s forced cheer and Junichiro’s curt answers.

At one point, however, Tharkay managed to overhear the tail-end of Junichiro volunteering a rare question, and whose subject matter gave him cause for mild alarm.

“—is that man by the Captain?”

“Oh, that’s Mr. Tharkay. He’s friends with the Captain."

"He is with the Chinese military?"

"No. He's, well, sometimes he’s an aviator for us; when he feels like it, I suppose. He was teaching me the other day, how to use a knife in a fight!”

Tharkay turned his head to the side, subtly looking at the pair over his shoulder. “He does not look British,” Junichiro said.

“I think Mr. Tharkay is, on his dad’s side.”

“Are he and the Captain lovers?”

Tharkay felt his jaw drop in surprised horror; he turned to see if Laurence had heard, but Laurence was occupied in conversation with Temeraire. The dragon had pointed out some peculiar feature of geography, which somehow led to Laurence explaining English farming practices, nomadic agriculture, and the difference between arable land and the sparse grasslands below them.

Tharkay let out a small breath, and turned his observation back to the two young runners. Thankfully, Emily seemed to have retained only the practical aspects of Temeraire’s Chinese tutelage, and did not understand the word Junichiro used for ‘lovers’. She asked Junichiro for clarification, but Junichiro had noticed Tharkay’s open scrutiny upon them, and did not press the query. He looked down at his hands, carefully avoiding Tharkay’s gaze.

Perhaps Junichiro was just especially perceptive, but it would not do to take such chances; he had to be more careful. Hopefully, the boy's abashed expression meant that the next time he would ask such a question, he would at least make sure the parties concerned were out of earshot, before he did so.

*

Tharkay knew that in terms of swordsmanship, Laurence was the superior of the two of them. In a one-on-one fight, Laurence could best him easily, although he would have a more difficult time of it if Tharkay so chose to fight in a more resourceful manner than an honorable one.

Unarmed, Laurence had strength and discipline forged by years of service that held up well against drunk brawlers in a tavern or desperate boarders on dragon-back, but left him ill-prepared to deal with someone like Tharkay. He improved the more they practiced, as he became more familiar with Tharkay’s movements, but his attacks and defenses with a knife were predictable, and Tharkay still won their bouts more often than not.

Tharkay held Laurence’s wrist with both hands, holding the sheathed knife away from this face, and managed to twist Laurence’s arm behind his back, pressing close behind him. With his grip loosened, Tharkay took the knife from his hand and pressed the edge against Laurence’s neck.

“I give,” Laurence said, and Tharkay let go of his arm.

“That was better, I’d say,” he said. “If I had been a moment slower, the knife would’ve been buried in my chest.”

It was some time after dinner, and they were practicing outside Laurence’s tent. Temeraire was off in his pavilion, dictating a letter for his mother to Emily, which would return to Peking on one of the Jade couriers. At some other parts of camp, the _shen-lung_ were tidying up their cooking pits, packing away supplies so that their company would be ready to depart first thing in the morning.

“I think, at least, I have improved to a point where I’m no longer practically handing you the knife,” Laurence said wryly, rubbing gingerly at his wrist. He was dressed down to his shirt, having handed off his coat and waistcoat to one of his runners; he untied his neckcloth, which had already been hanging loosely about his neck.

The comment made Tharkay smile. “I can try attacking next, and we will see if you can disarm me,” he said. He brandished the knife edge out, and waited for Laurence’s cue to start.

Tharkay first tried a couple of tentative slashes aimed at Laurence’s neck, but Laurence kept his distance, appraising him cautiously. Then he tried a different tactic, rushing at Laurence, right arm raised and the knife poised to stab down like an icepick. But Laurence had stepped forward into his space, overextending Tharkay’s aim, so that Laurence was able to capture his right wrist in a strong grip.

Laurence moved to twist his arm behind his back, as Tharkay had just recently done to him, but Tharkay recognised the motion; with a sharp flick of his right hand, he tossed the knife into the air and caught it with his left, but before he could attack a second time, Laurence had captured his left wrist. Breathing hard, Tharkay was trying to free either of his hands when a sharp twinge ran up the side of his ribs, old bruises making themselves known. In that moment, Laurence was able to insert a leg between Tharkay’s and hook it behind his knee, to reap out his left leg from underneath him. Laurence pushed him off-balance, but not before Tharkay had instinctively grabbed at his shirt-front, pulling him down with him.

The end result was both of them on the ground, dust kicked up in a cloud around them, making their eyes water. Tharkay was flat on his back, while Laurence was on top of him, his hands pinning Tharkay’s wrists beside his head, his knees straddling Tharkay’s waist.

Both of them were struck silent, and in the seconds that followed, Tharkay was abruptly hyper-aware of their close proximity, and of the compromising nature of their position: their breathing was suddenly overloud and heavy, and the warmth of their bodies painfully acute. His gaze darted over the blown pupils of Laurence’s eyes; his lips, slightly parted as he panted; the bare, pale skin of his throat. There was barely any space between them, and Laurence’s face was close, too close, his mouth near enough that if he leaned forward—  

His mistake, he thought, was letting the moment linger for far too long. Tharkay suddenly knew that his attention did not go unnoticed when Laurence froze, his eyes widening in realisation. He cleared his throat and made to free his wrists. Laurence went easily; they got to their feet, brushing dust from their clothing.

“Tharkay, are you okay? Did...did I hurt you?”

“Do not trouble yourself unduly; I am well. But on that note, I think perhaps I will take your advice for once, and retire early in consideration of my injuries,” Tharkay replied, his voice somewhat hoarse. “I take my leave of you.”

“Tharkay—”

“Goodnight, Laurence,” Tharkay said against Laurence’s confused concern, and strode sharply away to his tent.

*

“Tharkay, wait!”

Tharkay carefully avoided Laurence’s eyes, and after a hasty excuse, had walked away before Laurence could fully process his words. He immediately made to follow him, but something made him stop, feeling suddenly hesitant. Tharkay clearly wanted to be left alone, and Laurence need not ascribe any particular significance to what just happened between them; indeed, Laurence could simply be overreacting, and Tharkay’s odd retreat meant merely what he claimed it to be—

He ran after Tharkay. Whatever it was that just occurred between the two of them, it was _important_ , and Laurence needed to know, needed to confirm if it was simply some accursed trick of his imagination or….or something else.

“Tenzing.”

Laurence caught up to Tharkay just as he was pushing aside the flap of his tent. He froze, and there was a pause before he turned to face Laurence. The slight flush in his face belied his otherwise perfectly unreadable expression, not a trace of anger or confusion or even his usual ironic humor evident anywhere. Laurence could not remember seeing Tharkay like this before, as even in the earliest days of their acquaintance, Tharkay preferred to hide his emotions underneath a mask of tranquil mockery.

“Is there something else you require of me, Laurence?”

Laurence frowned, unsure how to proceed. “I—what transpired between us just now—”

Tharkay interrupted before he could say any more. “I am sure I have no idea what you mean.”

“Pray, Tenzing, that if I could request but one thing of you, is that you do not treat me like a fool,” said Laurence quietly.

Tharkay looked away, the barest hint of a grimace around the set of his mouth. “Then we had better talk inside,” he said, after a moment. Without looking to see if Laurence was following, he went inside his tent.

The tent was a small, domed construction, barely tall enough to stand in, but spacious enough to have accommodated three soldiers. In deference to his injuries, he’d been granted a tent of his own so he could recover in privacy, something Laurence was now extremely grateful for.

Tharkay took out a match and lit the lamp that rested upon the short crate by his cot. “What was it that you wished to discuss?”

“I do not know what to make of what just happened and I want—I only wish that you would be honest, and help me understand,” said Laurence pleadingly.

The lamp’s flame flickered weakly, and its dim light left most of Tharkay’s face in shadow. He paused before he gave his answer, and when he spoke he had his eyes averted, his voice is carefully level.

“I do not wish to say it aloud for fear of consequences, but in spite of what you think, I do not believe you to be a fool in the least. So instead, I will say that whatever you suspect, you suspect correctly.”

“Tenzing—”

Tharkay looked up, and the somberness of his expression gave Laurence pause. “I apologise. I did not realise that I have lately become so...careless,” he said.

Laurence could feel his heart hammering away in his chest, and suddenly he could not find any of the words he wished to say, as though the very same organ had lodged itself in his throat.

In the face of his persistent silence, Tharkay continued, “With your permission, and some supplies, I can depart in the morning. My maps indicate that we are near the Ulan-daban pass through the Altay, and from there I know the road to Urumqi—”

“You wish to leave?” asked Laurence, bewildered.

“I will leave,” Tharkay replied, still in that same toneless voice, “if you wish me to.”

Panic swelled inside him, irrational and unmitigated, and perhaps it was the traces of adrenaline still in his system, or the certain fear that if he failed to do something drastic he would lose Tharkay permanently, that made him act as he did. Laurence stepped forward, and slowly, deliberately, held Tharkay’s face in his hands, and pressed his lips against his.

It was several moments before Laurence’s senses caught up with him, but before he could pull away and apologise, Tharkay had wrapped his hands around the nape of his neck, pulling him forward to deepen the kiss. When they finally broke apart, they were both of them breathing hard, and Tharkay had hidden his face in the crook between Laurence’s neck and shoulder.

“I do not wish for you to leave,” said Laurence, when he finally caught his breath.

“I gathered as much,” Tharkay replied, hands now loosely gripping the front of Laurence’s shirt; Laurence thought he could feel a faint smile against his collarbone. He held Tharkay in a loose embrace, and waited for him to continue.

“How long have you suspected?”

“I do not know,” Laurence said honestly. “You are my dear friend, but in hindsight I cannot say if I have always known in a way and simply did not realise, or if I have never suspected a thing, before tonight.”

“Then why did you kiss me?”

“Because I thought maybe it would convince you to stay. Because I thought you wanted me to.”

Tharkay tilted his head slightly, and Laurence felt his words warm against his throat. “You have no idea what I want, Will,” said Tharkay, a faint tremble in his voice.

“I think I have some notion,” Laurence replied breathlessly, as Tharkay’s mouth traced the line of his pulse to the edge of his jaw. In the faint light, Laurence could make out his eyes, dark and intense, and he turned his head to capture Tharkay’s mouth in a kiss.

The kiss was somehow more frantic than the previous, more frenzied; Tharkay pulled him forward by the collar of his shirt, as he put his hands on Tharkay’s waist. Tharkay’s mouth was searingly hot, his teeth grazing Laurence’s lower lip, and Laurence felt the graze of stubble against his skin. He could barely make anything out over his heart pounding loudly in his ears.

Any number of moments could have passed, and Laurence would not be able to say how many, but at some point Tharkay had steered them towards his cot, until the back of Laurence's knees hit the edge of bed. Laurence sat back, hands still around Tharkay’s waist as he got on his knees on the bed and straddled Laurence’s lap.

“Laurence—” before he kissed him again, “Laurence— _Will_ ,” said Tharkay more forcefully, one hand twisted in Laurence’s hair. “Are you—are you certain that this is what you want?”

Laurence looked at Tharkay, his face flushed, eyes half-lidded, and his expression so openly vulnerable that Laurence was nearly unable to resist kissing him once more. Instead, he closed his eyes and touched their foreheads together. Then he spoke, and tried to imbue the words with all the certainty and sincerity and longing in the world: “With all my heart, Tenzing.”

*

Laurence kissed him again, deep and languid, running his hands down his sides, and Tharkay could not help but marvel at his abysmal timing even as he arched into the touch. For all the time he spent observing the man, _years_ spent in idle longing, he did not suspect in the slightest that his feelings could be reciprocated. Hoped for, certainly, but Tharkay had not trusted himself not to do anything foolish, if he allowed himself to seriously consider the possibility for even a second.

Now, in the midst of a military campaign, they hardly had time to indulge this. A world at war and the weight of it on Laurence’s shoulders, they would only be able to steal away moments like this, moments of touch and intimacy, and Tharkay could not imagine it could ever be enough, now that he knew it was within his reach. He would have them run away, abandon their worries and obligations in favour of exploring this new facet of their relationship at their leisure, without fear of death or censure.

Instead, it was hurried and desperate, and Tharkay resolved to hoard every moment with all the greed and avarice of a jealous dragon. He ran his mouth over Laurence’s lips and throat, sucked at the hollow of his collarbone, while Laurence pulled his body flush against him with a hand on the small of his back, the other behind his left knee. Then he lifted Tharkay’s knee, and Tharkay let himself be flipped onto his back on the thin cot.

“Have you—have you ever been with a man before?” Tharkay asked, his voice hoarse.

Laurence blushed, quite impressively given their current enterprise, and nodded. “I was—I had my share of indiscretions back when I was a midshipman—”

Tharkay cut him off with a laugh and pulled him down in another kiss. A rough hand crept under his shirt, ghosting over his skin, and Tharkay shuddered, barely suppressing a moan against Laurence’s mouth. His own hands he set about unbuttoning both their trousers, and then Laurence’s cock was in his hand, hard and slick with pre-ejaculate—

“Oh _Lord_ , Tenzing,” Laurence cried, breaking the kiss and nearly collapsing on top of him. Tharkay took them both in hand, and set the rhythm of his strokes. Laurence began to thrust into his hand, rocking his hips roughly, and Tharkay shut his eyes, stifling his moan with the back of his other hand, nearly insensate with pleasure.

He startled then, when Laurence grabbed his wrist and pinned it above his head. Laurence crushed their mouths together, swallowing every noise that Tharkay made with each thrust of his hips, again and again, until they both fell apart. Laurence buried his face against Tharkay’s neck to muffle his groans as Tharkay gasped his name soundlessly, spilling on the flat of his stomach as orgasm overcame them both, almost agonising in its intensity.

Laurence collapsed on the cot besides Tharkay, and the silence that followed was punctuated only by their harsh, ragged breaths. In a vaguely delirious thought, Tharkay noted their crumpled clothing, as both of them were still mostly dressed.

He closed his eyes, and tried to collect some semblance of coherence. After some moments, Tharkay turned on his side to face Laurence, resting his head on his shoulder.

“I have something to confess.”

Laurence blinked, still in somewhat of a daze. “What is it, Tenzing?”

“I have not the earthliest idea how we could return to simply sparring, after that.”

Laurence smiled widely, and began to laugh. “Well, we can simply tell Temeraire that you will be there to fend off any knife-wielding assailants, if need be,” he said.

It could not last, of course. Every second Laurence was there beside him was merely another stolen moment, and soon enough he would have to leave for his own tent. In the morning, they would return to the air again, flying towards war and all the hardship and suffering it heralded. The future promised precious few chances like this, with so many things between the two of them, conspiring to keep them apart.

But at this moment, Laurence was beside him, warm and solid and real, and their worries distant enough. They lay like that for awhile in comfortable silence, Laurence stroking his hair contentedly, as Tharkay listened to the quiet rhythm of his heartbeat, counting each second away.

**Author's Note:**

> My entry for the **2015 Temeraire exchange** , for **the-inevitable-pinhole-burns** ' prompt: " _Tharkay teaches Laurence a new skill. Feel free to interpret that however NSFW you like. :)_ "
> 
> The title is from the same song by _TV on the Radio_ , which was what was playing in the background as I wrote this. I hope you like your gift! (also my usual thanks to kiran for the beta and general yelling at me to finish.)


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